The Last Garden in England(89)

“I became a mother. I had to put music aside,” she said.

Cynthia snorted. “No, you didn’t, and you have a nanny.”

“There was so much to do…”

“Besides, you stopped doing things you enjoyed long before you became a mother, didn’t you?” asked Cynthia.

“Concerts can be so tedious—” She stopped abruptly.

“My brother hated anything where he had to sit quietly and let something or someone else be the center of attention. Concerts, opera, theater—none of it was for him, so he convinced you that you didn’t want to go, either.

“I’ll bet fifty guineas that he was the one who pushed to move to Highbury—a place where you didn’t know a soul—so that he could play at country gentleman. I’m sure he told you that you two would be happier without the distraction of parties and friends.”

“I didn’t like parties all that much,” she whispered. And she hadn’t, but she’d tried her hardest because, when they were first married, it had mattered to Murray that they were liked. Popular. She’d begun to gather a small group of women around her. She’d started to look forward to seeing them regardless of whether Murray was by her side. She began to have a life, and then Murray had inherited Highbury House and uprooted them. There had been no discussion, no question. London wasn’t a suitable place to raise children, he’d argued. Highbury was a home. She’d let him convince her. It seemed so obvious that it’s what she should want. But had she?

It felt as though all of these years she’d been watching her memories from behind glass, and Cynthia had just swung a hammer.

“In fairness to Murray, he probably thought that what you wanted and what he wanted were conveniently in step. He had Highbury House and an important London practice, a big house and a wife to make it beautiful. You built a life to his exact specifications,” said Cynthia.

But that wasn’t true. Highbury House was her creation because Murray had become bored of it. She’d dealt with the builders, decorators, and gardeners, answering their questions about what brass knobs to buy and how high to hang the pictures. She’d argued with the vendor who’d delivered the wrong bathtub for the master bathroom. Twice. She’d been the one exhausted at the end of each night, constantly covered in a fine layer of construction dust.

“And whatever happened to your harp?” Cynthia asked.

Her stomach fell. In her heart of hearts that she’d given up playing for Murray, and she’d resented him for it. Why else did her daily hour in the music room bring her so much joy and guilt all at once? Why else would she feel so furious when she thought about the time he’d come home from London and found her crying on Nanny’s day off because Robin had croup and she hadn’t even had time to bathe, let alone practice. He’d suggested she put away her harp, so she’d packed up her greatest joy because that was what a wife did when her husband was thinking of her best interests. She loved her husband, but when she thought of that day, she hated him, too.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Diana asked.

Cynthia shrugged. “Would you have listened?”

“I might have.”

That earned her a hard laugh. “The scared little girl my brother paraded in front of all of us, not for approval, but to show that he’d won an Eddings? I think not. You hung on his every word.”

“I loved him,” she said.

Cynthia sobered. “I’m glad for that. For all of my brother’s faults, I’m glad that he was loved.”

Diana looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. She didn’t know if Cynthia was playing a game or speaking truthfully, but she did know one thing with a certainty that seemed to penetrate her very bones.

Slowly she unknotted her fingers and smoothed them out over her skirt. “I am not a scared little girl any longer. No matter what you think of me, I will not be dictated to about how I run my household or raise my son.”

“I know.”

Diana’s chin jerked. “You know? You swept into my house and took over.”

“Because you were useless. The day the requisition order came through, Mrs. Dibble telephoned me because she said you barely looked at the order.”

“I was grieving.”

“I came here because if I hadn’t stepped in, who knows what would have happened to the house. Look at Sir Parker’s home in Suffolk: It was practically burned to the ground thanks to the troops using it as a training ground,” said Cynthia.

“But the way you speak about the house…”

“How do I speak about it?” Cynthia asked.

“As though you think it should be yours!” she exclaimed.

Cynthia’s expression darkened. “I’m a Symonds by birth, and this was my home long before it was yours. I hate that after this war, this hospital will dissolve, I’ll be gone, and you’ll still have Highbury House.”

Diana opened her mouth to say… what? That Cynthia could visit anytime? Neither of them would be comfortable with that arrangement.

“I thank you for stepping in to Highbury when I was unable to,” Diana said, careful to control her voice as she lifted her drink like a shield.

“Who else would have been commandant? You?” Cynthia gave a bitter laugh.